Archive for the ‘Stories, secrets & dreams’ Category

Pamela Santucci works as a cleaning woman in a medical building where there are many medical offices. She cleans daily from 5 a.m. to 2 p.m. One morning, around 4:30, she got on the elevator, and a passenger came in after her, and said, “14, please.” So Pamela pressed the floor she wanted.

As the elevator was moving, she kept staring at the passenger, until it finally dawned on her who the person was. It was her daughter’s best friend. The passenger also kept staring at Pamela. Both said nothing. The elevator stopped on the 14th floor, and when the passenger got off, Pamela saw that the floor only has psycho offices, so Pamela wondered why Gloria Banapoli would be going to see a shrink.

When she got home, she told her daughter, gossip that she is. Her daughter said, “Ma, sit down. But please do not repeat this. She is married to Richie Cannoli.”

Then Pamela said, “The mob guy? But he’s in prison!”

Then her daughter said, “Ma, Ma, read between the lines. He married her so she can carry things in and out of jail for him.”

Pamela put her hands to her mouth, then over her head, and said, “You didn’t stop her from doing this crazy thing? What did her parents say—they don’t know?”

Her daughter said, “No.”

And Pamela said, “Of all the cockamamie things! I will have a talk with her the next time I see her. And that has to be now. Today. Find her, please, and bring her here.”

And that evening, there was Gloria, sitting at Pamela’s kitchen table.

“You being married to Richie, can’t you see what a mess you’re in? Can’t you annul the marriage?”

Gloria’s response was to ask, “You know I used to go with Bobby Fantusa?”

Pamela said, “Yes.”

Gloria then told her that Richie was going to kill her if he didn’t leave her, “So Bobby dropped me, which I found out later was a lie. You see, Bobby had borrowed money from the mob, and for payment—I was the payment.”

Pamela said, “My God, what are you going to do?”

Gloria said, “That isn’t the worst part. When you saw me this morning, I was making a delivery to the doctor. There are quite a few doctors I deliver drugs to weekly, but rarely that early. Usually after 4 p.m. That doctor was going to California later that day, and I couldn’t miss him. Then I gave the cash to Richie’s father. That’s my story. Bobby Fantusa got me in this mess.”

Then Pamela said, “And Bobby will get you out of this mess.”

After Gloria left, Pamela sat down at the table on the same chair Gloria had just left. She started smiling to herself. You see, when she was at Erasmus High, there was a boy who had a big crush on her. His name was Emilio Lagatuta. He had a great voice, like the great Caruso, Alonso, or even Robison. Anyways, his father forbade him to take up singing. He said, “That profession does not pay any money. You should come into the family business.”

His father was Vinnie Lagatuta, the head of the mob of Amalie. Over the years Emilio became the leader of the family. And over the years Gloria and Emilio kept in touch. So Gloria called Emilio, told him the problem, and he agreed to take care of it.

Within two days she got a call from Gloria. The problem was solved, and she was free from her husband. You see, when you have friends in high place, things happen. Of course, this story is entirely made up.

Ezra Sugarbaker was a kid at heart. When he built the Sugarbaker mansion, he had a few add-ons, like a revolving door, a sliding wall, fake fireplaces, and for himself, a dumbwaiter. The first set of changes was for children he entertains at Christmas, Easter, or whenever else he feels like having kids over. When he got sick, he closed up all those features, except for the dumb-waiter.

By the way, do you know the use of a dumbwaiter? It’s an elevator-like appliance that goes from the kitchen to the floor above. Most rich houses have one, so that your meals can be served in bed, rather than going downstairs.

Leticia was the housekeeper who took care of Ezra. Let me tell you how Leticia came to work for the Sugarbakers. She worked for a bed-and-breakfast in Cootersville. When Ezra and Rose were on a trip, they saw her, liked her, and hired her on the spot. She has been with them for years.

The reason I’m telling you this is because of secrets. When Anthony heard what Mee Mee said, he called Iris, and the conversation was overheard by Dulcinanea and Prudence, the two downstairs maids, who were washing the the dishes in the kitchen.

Let me tell you how this is possible. After Ezra’s death, Rose closed off the dumbwaiter, made bookshelves, and turned that area into a bedroom for her daughter when she came home from college. But in the kitchen she added a one-way intercom, so she can listen to the conversations her daughter is having in the room. That’s the room Anthony is staying in.

So Dulcinanea said to Prudence, , “Did you hear that he is talking to some woman named Iris?”

Then Prudence said, “That’s that Tibido woman. I was at the dinner tonight, and he was talking about Miss Mee Mee.”

Then Dulcinanea said, “We have to tell Leticia what we heard.”

Anthony is still talking to Iris. “Look, Iris, I am not going to jeopardize a good thing I got going here, because you want to continue some feud. Hello? Hello? Hello?” She’d hung up.

Dulcinanea said, “We’d better call Leticia and tell her what we heard. I tell you, some secrets, like this one, must be told.”

“I am so sick and tired of this,” Rosemary blurted out, slamming the plate on the counter and spilling the galloping, wild meatballs off the spaghetti so they were sent racing along the Formica counter. She knew such outbursts were bound to get her in trouble. She had run into that before – Sam Feeter had almost fired her. But she had glared at him with her sharp blue eyes narrowed to a slit defying his power and authority. He had backed off mumbling and equivocating and she had thrown her dirty dish rag toward him when she turned and walked away.

But there were more and more mo0ments like this for Rosemary: the pressure of readying plates of food, or taking orders or having to be courteous to those aloof, arrogant and rude customers. Their air of superiority and entitlement left her spent and angry. Her strength was wearing thin.

She had taken to stepping away from the counter, away from the din of the lower level food court where now even the smell of foods sickened her and had begun walking up the rap by the Oyster Bar to circle around into the center of the terminal. She would walk toward the famous Grand Central clock, one of the dishtowels still hanging around rom her left hand, her hair net clinging tenaciously to her sweaty forehead and there she would lean her head far back and raise her eyes to the ceiling.

There the sky would reveal itself: the blues, the tiny lights of the constellations, the life of stars made real, come alive on a painted ceiling.

When she first began these excursions from the food court to the blue sky of Grand central, they were brief and infrequent. But now the smell of garlic and hot oil, or the smell of simmering spices or the stale smell of beer from the nearby bar all began to nauseate her. They rose as such violently offensive odors that they often triggered a migraine. She began to flee to the upper level now just to avoid becoming sick. But it wasn’t just the smells that began to repulse her, but also the sights. The soft whiteness of Junior’s cheesecake, the glossy bright red of the strawberries dripping a thick red syrup from the top down its sides, or the plump round or oblong loaves of bread at Zaro’s… any of the colors and textures began to disturb her, left her feeling off balance and distressed.

But mostly, it was the people. Short tempered, sometimes impatient and belligerent customers. Demanding, dictating, dismissive. She felt a revolution inside her. A refusal to put up with this shit any longer.

So her treks to the upper level became more frequent, abandoning customers un-served, ranting down there for service, agitated, swearing, disagreeable customers. Rosemary simply thought: ‘to hell with them.’

She began now to traipse up the stairs to the main rotunda before Sam Feeter could find her, come after her to fire her. Once there in the rotunda, she would lie down on the floor in the center of Grand Central so that she might better view the sky, count the stars, set her mind and heart to dance upon the constellations.

The always came, of course. The Grand Central Police. The same ones who drove the people who were homeless from the terminal’s warmth to the violent cold of the streets. The same ones puffed up in blue uniforms as if in Halloween costumes making believe they were people of consequence, people of power. They would circle her. One red haired, plump-faced cop tapping his baton against his left palm impatiently as if indicating the enormous restraint eh was exercising in not smacking her with it instead. They would help her to her feet as the demanded but she would pull her arm away from them angrily. Who were they, after all, to own the sky, the stars, the dancing constellations? Who were they to cast her back down into the dungeon of bowls of spaghetti and tight-assed blonds in grey suits or stuffy white men with fanciful silk ties racing in and out of the city in their commute and demanding her to attend to their needs?

She knew she had to walk away from it all. Take that dirty towel of hers and roll up that soiled apron and matted hair net and toss it all into the dungeon and leave while she still had her sanity, still had her soul intact.

She walked with purpose and intent and speed. And she just kept walking. Away from the smells, the sights, the sounds, the people of that infernal terminal.

She walked until the lowering afternoon sun cast long shadows from the buildings and from her own body. Until the day’s dampness built up into the chill of an early evening, the air sharp and cold but clear. The city darkened as she walked and wove her way through the small pathways of Central park. Now the darkness was thick and palpable and it was the night of no moon when it had run its course in the heavens and would return tomorrow in the slim silver of a new moon. Nothing now but darkness. How perfect, Rosemary thought. She lay herself down on the soft grass of the park in the night chill and gazed lovingly skyward. No ceiling. No tiny lights – just pure sky. And there they came one after another. The glow of the stars sent off on their way thousands and thousands of years ago arriving here before her eyes now. That starlight, those dancing constellations and she, able to be alone with them at last.

Goethe said that for a man’s life to be successful it must be lived as an allegory. A beat poet of the ‘50s compared life to coasting down a hill, mindless of the fact that, eventually, the free ride will come to an end.

I do not see my life this way. Rather, looking back and looking ahead, I see life as a long winter journey. Every so often one sees a blade of dried grass or a nesting place under a shelter. For the most part one ought not to expect that life will be rosy. Doing so will breed complacency and vulnerability.

There are paths one might pursue to make the pain more tolerable. The stories of Greek antiquity have had much to say about this, but too I find that today’s “stories” are ascetic and unable to enjoy themselves during periods when we are blessed with plenty.

Yes, prayer has been practiced throughout the ages as a way to deal with hardship. But in a predominantly secular world, resorting to prayer can be misunderstood as an escape from what is popularly regarded as ‘reality.”

Some see hope and resignation as the only two ways to deal with difficulties. There is doubt as to what we ought to love, and whether resignation would be appropriate were we to learn that we had hoped for the wrong thing.

At the close of Die Winterreise, Franz Schubert’s lieder cycle about a long winter’s journey, the singer stumbles into the final passage of the cycle. What was it that sustained him for this trip? The answer: “Think not on my words, for words can always be used to tell a lie. Think instead about my music, for with music one can only say what is there.” It was only with my music that I told the truth.

Germs, germs, germs. All over New York City. That’s what me and my big mouth are into these days.

Last week I had this little tickle in my throat that turned into a drippy, messy nose. The last two days, this cold has developed into a strong, oud cough. An inconvenience to me as I lose sleep, an inconvenience to other people as they feel threatened by my germs.

Comments from the cold front:

“Cover your mouth.” (But my mouth is covered, I thought.)

“Sorry,” I said.

“Cover your mouth.” (But my nose is also gushing and mess, and I am trying to find a tissue.)

“Sorry,” I said.

“Cover your mouth, bullet-nose!” (Time for me to move away fast.)

Others say nothing and uncomfortably shirt away. Still others have a bored, stoic response, as if this is normal in New York City—probably my response in their situation.

Soon this cold will disappear. I will have other opportunities to exert my right to be a minor pest to others as they return, in kind, their irritating behavior to me, in this hotbed of overpopulation.

Years ago when I was young, I remember in Greenwich Village, there was a real Italian bakery on Carmine Street which was owned and operated by real Italians (with accents, and born and raised in the old country.)

Each morning as I walked down the street, I could smell the bread and other bakery goods from at least two blocks before the shop. Heaven must smell like that. Sweet homemade bread, rolls and other Italian specialities wafted through the streets of downtown New York, calling all residents, friends and neighbors to the shop.

I wish I could remember the name of the owners who might have opened another bakery elsewhere. Maybe they went back to Italy.

At the top of the hill with my shopping cart and cane, I took a look at my feet and saw how they were improving after my foolish stint of showering with the same socks on for these three years. How stupid. The fungus grew between the socks and my feet. How stupid. Well, here I am at the fork in the road, I turn around to look at the distances I have come, all the hardship and turmoil I have experienced, the good things and the bad things. I then turn to look at the distances I have to go. I still see the same as what I saw when I left. I then turn to look at the starting path on this night and I see happy times, wealth and prosperity. I turn again and look at the path I’ve traveled. I immediately look to the sky. I said, “Que sera, sera.” Then I started walking on my original path. I know how to function in this manner, a change could be completely different. I couldn’t cope this way. A change would be nice at my age but I could not exist.